


‘They burned me.’

by Crowgirl



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bad Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scars, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Geralt licks his lips, bringing his hands down so he can see them and flexing his fingers gingerly. He can feel the cuffs now, heavy leather and metal, one around each wrist, joined by a chain he can’t break, can’t even twist.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 491





	‘They burned me.’

‘--alt. Geralt.’

‘Mm?’

‘You’ve stopped moving.’ Jaskier shifts his grip on Geralt’s wrists gently and adds, ‘And breathing. Which isn’t -- ah -- usual. For you.’

‘I haven’t,’ Geralt protests, or means to, but his throat is dry and his voice no longer seems to be working. Which is ...odd.

‘Yeah, okay,’ Jaskier says slowly and, before Geralt can stop him, swings his leg back over Geralt’s hips, and resettles himself to kneel on the bed. He gathers up Geralt’s closest hand in both his own and kisses the back of it. ‘So that didn’t go well.’

Geralt clears his throat carefully. ‘It _was_ going fine.’ He glances pointedly down the stretch of his body to where Jaskier is no longer perched on his thighs.

‘Well, forgive me for liking a little more active engagement from the person I’m in bed with.’ Jaskier's tone is sharp but his hands stay slow and very soft, stroking over Geralt’s fingers and wrist as if Geralt were his lute. 

‘How much more actively engaged can I be?’ Geralt wriggles his shoulders against the pillow. ‘You told me to lie down and I am.’

‘Breathing. I like breathing.’

Geralt takes a theatrically deep breath, holds it for a minute, then expels it in a slow sigh. ‘Better?’

‘You forget how long we’ve known each other.’ Jaskier leans over and taps one long forefinger between Geralt’s eyebrows. ‘I can see when these lovely eyes of yours have turned into pretty little golden coins because you’re not really behind them any more.’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ 

‘You’ve gone away, Geralt.’ Jaskier waves his hand through the air as if describing the flight of a bird. ‘I don’t know where and I don’t know why but it looks very much like it’s because of something I did and I’d like to know what so I can not do it again.’

Geralt shakes his head slowly because he honestly has no idea what Jaskier’s talking about. They’re together, in a room that has both a bed and a door that locks, their clothes are in a pile by their packs, and as far as Geralt was concerned, that was more or less ideal. Everything else was frippery. 

‘Hm.’ Jaskier resettles himself on his heels. ‘When I was in school--’

‘And now we’re talking?’

‘When I was in school,’ Jaskier continues, staring dreamily at the far wall as if Geralt weren’t stretched naked before him. Geralt sighs again and gives himself up to hearing whatever story Jaskier wants to tell him. ‘I had a few -- ah -- encounters with a charming young woman from Redania. Quite tall, very strong -- stronger than me and don’t you dare make that noise I can hear getting ready to come out of your mouth.’

‘I said nothing.’

‘And we -- er -- encountered each other often enough that I noticed the one thing she absolutely couldn’t stand was being kissed on the throat.’

Geralt feels a faint flash of sorrow for the woman -- Jaskier has a lovely way of nuzzling kisses in the space just below Geralt’s ear -- but he mostly wants this story to be finished.

‘Being touched on her neck at all, really. So I asked her about it once--’

‘How unlike you.’

‘--and she said it was because her father always made her wear these dresses with high collars--’ Jaskier demonstrates on himself with his free hand, clasping his palm to the front of his throat and forcing his chin up and back. He releases his hand after a minute and lets it drop onto Geralt’s abdomen, tracing absent, skin-tingling circles around Geralt’s navel. ‘She hated them so much she couldn’t stand anything that reminded her of them. She couldn’t even wear necklaces.’

‘Fascinating,’ Geralt says when it becomes clear that’s the end of the story. ‘If I ever meet a very tall woman from Redania, I shan’t offer her a necklace.’

Jaskier gives him a brilliant smile. ‘Certainly not when I’m around, I hope.’ 

Geralt rolls his eyes and pushes himself up on his elbow, sliding his free hand up Jaskier’s thigh. ‘Is there a point to all this or are we just having fun reminiscing? Because I’ve got a story about a couple of barmaids in Cythoril you might really enjoy.’ 

Jaskier looks at him for a long minute and then, before Geralt can do more than _oof_ at the sudden weight, Jaskier has both Geralt’s wrists pinned back to the mattress. 

Jaskier is stretched awkwardly over him to catch Geralt’s left hand and there’s no way he can hold Geralt like this for more than a moment or so but Geralt freezes. 

He doesn’t even mean to; it just happens. 

Jaskier releases his wrists very gently and sits back. ‘You see my point.’ 

Geralt licks his lips, bringing his hands down so he can see them and flexing his fingers gingerly. He can feel the cuffs now, heavy leather and metal, one around each wrist, joined by a chain he can’t break, can’t even twist. 

‘--ralt.’ 

He jerks when Jaskier touches his face.

‘It’s just me --’ Jaskier stretches out beside him, his hand still on Geralt’s cheek. ‘Just me, the featherweight bard.’

‘They burned me.’ The words come out without his meaning to and Geralt bites his tongue.

‘They -- what?’ 

Geralt crosses his wrists and makes a gesture as if to hold them above his head. ‘They cuffed me and--’ It’s easier to show than to describe so he grabs Jaskier’s hand and guides it down to the patch of over-smooth skin just over his left hip. The actual sigil itself is almost obliterated; not even a burn lasts forever on a witcher’s body. Jaskier’s fingers touch the spot very lightly, run over its edges, learn its proportions. 

‘Who did this?’ 

Geralt shrugs and before Jaskier can do more than start to draw his lips thin, says, ‘I truly don’t remember. Villagers. A long way from here.’ 

‘Throwing you out of town wasn’t enough?’ 

Geralt shrugs again. ‘I killed a _näkki_ for them but not fast enough.’

‘So they burned you.’ Jaskier’s hand presses over the too-smooth skin. 

‘It killed a lot of people. They were angry.’

Jaskier breathes something too quiet for Geralt to hear and leans his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder, his hand still pressed over the scar. ‘I’m amazed they could hold you.’

‘I was young.’ 

‘And so…’ Jaskier’s voice trails into silence but Geralt can feel him shape the words against his skin. Jasker is silent for a long minute, then says quietly, ‘I’m glad you don’t remember the name of the village.’ 

‘You’d never play there again?’ 

Jaskier lifts his head and the look in his dark blue eyes is not something Geralt has seen there before. ‘I’d damn them. Verse by verse.’ 

No-one’s ever said anything like that to Geralt and Jaskier offers it up like he’d offer another pint of ale or the better of two pillows. He doesn’t want it -- the village is probably deserted and if it isn’t, the generation that saw fit to bind and burn is long-dead -- but the _offering_ of it leaves him speechless and it isn’t like he has all that many words to start with. 

So because he has even fewer words than usual, he rolls onto his side and slips his hands into Jaskier’s hair and presses kisses onto his mouth until the tension eases out of Jaskier’s shoulders and he gives into the pull of Geralt’s hands, letting Geralt pull their bodies together until they’re flush, hip to shoulder, and then Jaskier doesn’t have any words either. 

**Author's Note:**

> A _näkki_ , for those interested, is the Finnish iteration of a waterhorse.


End file.
